TV On Remand: BAFTAs, Sky Sports News

And The Winner Is... Not The TV Viewer

I watched much of it through my fingers, emitting a high-pitched cringey keening sound, like a fox shagging a fax machine.

Televised awards shows can be a bit annoying. They go on far too long. They feature neurotic actresses crying. They involve expressions of gratitude to people you don’t know or particularly care about. It’s all a bit like having your nose pressed against the window of a party you’re not invited to. Or reading tedious Facebook updates by that friend you don’t like much, accompanied by endless pics of shiny-faced drunks mugging to camera and “ledge banter” about epic hangovers the next day.

There are also way too many awards shows on telly these days. Film ones, music ones, telly ones, comedy ones, ones for brave kids/soldiers/dogs. They’re an easy way to fill a night’s programming – just point a few cameras and put your feet up – but overkill has made them less special. So it proved with last night’s Baftas, which were something of a wet fart.

Proceedings began with red carpet coverage on E!, admittedly a channel not renowned for hard-hitting news content. This was presented by Fearne Cotton and Dermot O'Leary, presumably both being paid a fat wedge to venture that far down on the EPG. E! might be asking for a refund. The awkward duo, who hilariously dubbed themselves “Fermot” (surprisingly not “Woodward and Bernstein”) were nervy and star-struck faced with famous actors. There was forced banter, frantic filling and it was painfully apparent that neither had seen the nominated films, adding an extra dimension of dumb. I watched much of it through my fingers, emitting a high-pitched cringey keening sound, like a fox shagging a fax machine.

As for the ceremony itself… well, one glaring question here: why the merry chuff was it shown on a two-hour delay? By the time the BBC1 broadcast went out at 9pm, the winners had been announced all over websites and social networks. Any tension promptly went pffffft. It’s not as if over-refreshed rock’n’rollers like Colin Firth and Helena Bonham Carter were going to swear live on TV. The time-lag was presumably so the Beeb could trim out the dull categories, but they’d have been way better off showing a three-hour live show than a two-hour edit with no jeopardy. Besides, it’s not like the Beeb hasn’t got enough channels to stick it on.

To make matters more tedious, pretty much every prize went to the bookies’ favourite. The Artist won most of them. Meryl Streep, Senna, Hugo and Tinker Tailor Soldier Spycleaned up the rest. Even viewers who’d managed a two-hour news blackout didn’t have many shocks in store. Host Sir Stephen Of Fryshire struggled manfully to inject some wit and so, weirdly, did Russell Crowe, who turned out to be the most amusing guest presenter - presumably trying to make amends for ten years ago, when he pinned a TV exec to the wall for cutting his pretentious speech. Fair dinkum, Rusty.

So all in all, a glittering non-event. No alarms. No surprises. No tears, tantrums or arse-over-tit falls. Talking of which, even Christina Hendricks’ considerable talents weren’t displayed as prominently as usual. No wonder those gold masks looked a bit pissed off.

Sky Sports News in “actual news” shocker

Harry Redknapp’s acquittal and Fabio Capello’s resigation last Wednesday was a wet dream for Sky Sports News. Anchormen shouted, tickertape scrolled, reporter Nick Collins stood outside Wembley with his walrus moustache frozen stiff and random ex-players rocked up (many of them wearing fat suits, it seemed) to make ill-informed guesses as to what was going down. The channel had only just recovered from the excitement of Transfer Deadline Day too. And then to cap it all, there was the Luis Suarez stupidity on Saturday. Collins’ quivering ‘tache and Jim White’s silvery barnet have rarely been so busy. Well played, Ron Burgundies of football.

You’re bunga arrest

When I heard the name “Inspector Montalbano”, I hoped it was a hip-hop relaunch for It’s My Life hit-maker Doctor Alban. But no, it’s the latest BBC Four offering in their patented “9pm Saturday subtitled drama slot”. It’s solid fare about a grumpy Sicilian detective and the scenery’s a holiday for the eyes. Sort of Morse in a designer suit. Or Midsomer Murders with a strand of spaghetti hanging out of its mouth. Or Poirot pissed on Peroni. Wonder if Fabio Capello was watching, snuggled up with John Terry and a pile of severance cash?